


Drabbles

by OverthinkingAntagonizing



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Fortuna - Fandom, Off
Genre: i may not continue this, if i dont then, not like im doing anything overly original here, oh well
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 13:21:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17725973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OverthinkingAntagonizing/pseuds/OverthinkingAntagonizing
Summary: Various drabbles of beginnings and endings. First up is off and the batter! Second is our lovely Doctor.





	1. Chapter 1

Something felt indescribably wrong even before he opened his eyes.  
He was alive, for starters. He never knew for certain what would happen if he threw the switch, but when the world went dark he figured it must have meant everyone left, including him, had died.

But there he was, alive, awake, and aware.

He searched for the guidance of his god and puppeteer when he realised the second thing that was wrong, unfathomable and horrible.  
He was alone, not a puppet on strings no more, nor an avatar of a holy figure.

It's not that the puppeteer did not exist, no. He could feel the distinct feeling of a watching eye, but it wasn't trained on him. The invisible hands were working a different puppet.

Was he abandoned? He was so afraid when The Judge had offered the puppeteer to leave him, but the puppeteer then refused the offer, sticking by his side until the end. It was the first time he ever feared. Of course, he felt wrath almost constantly, of the holy kind. He felt protective, or even sorrowful when he euthanized his own son and creator. But fear only came when he thought he might be abandoned. Because without the puppeteer he couldn't complete his mission. But his kind God had known what he had to do and knew the mission was important. That too was the only time he felt grateful.

But he did complete it. He finished the job, fulfilled his purpose, and yet here he is. Meaningless, alone, and utterly lost.  
All that, before he even opened his eyes.

When he opened them he had expected the darkness of the nothingness or the even bleaker black of the introduction screen. He never expected it to be so bright. Bright and colourful.

He was faced with an endless blue. He was lying on his back, so he could only assume he's looking at a sky. But a sky couldn't be this colour.  
Underneath him was something soft. Like little, weirdly flat hairs. When he dug his fingers into it he discovered a warm and moist layer underneath, made of powder too uneven to be metal. It all smelled awfully unfamiliar. The nostril-burning scent of plastic he was so used to didn't have a hint of it in the smoke. It didn't smell like smoke at all.

He was always a practical man, from the moment of his creation, and not one prone to panic, despite the circumstances. He pushed himself upright, averting his eyes from the sky's offending blue.

He didn't seem to be in any pain, and yet he felt weak, every ounce of energy stripped from his body. It as strained, as if put through unexpected stress. he supposed arriving here must have been difficult.

He laid his eyes on the misshapen hairs of the ground and found them to be green. The contrast between them and the sky wasn't sharp enough to indicate importance but was persistent enough to strain his eyes. He instead raised his head to look ahead.

The ground on which he sat was uneven, rising and falling in an unnatural manner. He couldn't for the life of him tell what for, and seemed to grow hair for as far as he could see. If he were a man who tended to hold an opinion on things as unimportant as the ground of all things, he'd say it was disgusting.  
Here and there on the uneven ground there stood towering, menacing figures, though they did not move. The only creatures to ever tower over him were the guardians, and so he became wary.

Then hit him the third and, though least existentially important, personally alarming detail of this situation.  
He had not had a single bat on him.  
The item that has given him his very name was utterly lost.

He finally stood up, rising to look for his missing weapon, but it was nowhere in sight. He searched in his mind for where it could possibly be, when he considered the storage his god used to use. A way of taking items off his hands so he wouldn't be burdened by carrying them, and yet accessible when he deemed them needed. He searched for this now, and found it starkly different than he remembered, filled with items he's certain he's never owned- a stack of none-tunic clothes branded with a number and a letter; none-meaty none-sugary foods, some of them sharing the green of the ground hair; A small lamp he was certain he didn't need, after all, he could always see in pitch darkness; a few more he didn't recognise. But no bat, no bat at all. He looked down at himself, and found that he did indeed wear his tunic. He reached for the top of his head and confirmed his hat was there. So why wasn't his bat? Perhaps he managed to drop it on his way here. Wherever "here" was.

He had a mission to fulfil. If he was alive, it meant his mission wasn't finished. This zone, however he missed it, wasn't even near the beautiful stark white of purity. The same stark white of his own skin. He imagined he didn't stand out, colourless on such a bright background. Though most zones were unbelievably bright, their monochrome colouration made the living in their colourlessness feel fitting, and marked out.  
This was too much colour, he couldn't imagine anything standing out in the slightest. An assault on his eyes.

He climbed a part of the ground where it was heightened- he had decided to call these ground piles- to gain a better view. In the distance, a group of curious and finally rectangular shapes came to view. He was almost certain these were buildings; finally something he could recognise.

He began walking towards them, wary of spectres. This residential area must have citizens, and the elsens must know where this place is. Hopefully, he'll even run into Zacharie, who could sell him a new bat.

The Batter strengthened his resolve. For whatever reason his puppeteer abandoned him, he will prove his worth again, he'll show him his determination to purify the world; after all, it had to be that. This overlooked zone, this careless mistake, they had to be why the puppeteer abandoned him.  
He'll correct that.


	2. Could Only Die Victorious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the doctor, despite having finite time, is also a constant in the universe's timeline. That means only one thing.

He could only die victorious.

From his perspective, life was long, and then you die. Sure, he has died many times and gained many faces, but everyone, even he, has a permanent end somewhen.  
From the universe's perspective, however, he was nothing short than a constant.  
He skipped throughout the whole of both space, and more importantly, time. He has been to the end and to the beginning, and every point in-between.  
Perhaps the Doctor would die at the very end of the universe, and throughout all of life within it, there will never be a truly dead Doctor at all. Perhaps he died at its very beginning, and for the whole of reality, the Doctor was long gone, dead before he even had a chance to be born.  
Such is the nature of time travel.  
And yet, throughout the whole of reality, regardless of age, experience, or incarnation, there also always was and always will be, a Doctor perfectly within the living.  
His Tardis always took him to where he needed to go, needed to be, and his phone always rang at the oddest opportunities, always with a new adventure on the other end of the line. When someone got really desperate, or maybe when they were feeling just a little bit flirty, they could always send a distress call straight to his psychic paper.  
For the average citizen of the universe, at every point within existence, there was somewhere a Doctor who they could reach.  
Thus, at every point of existence, when the Doctor was needed, he would come.

And so, when the Doctor would finally draw his last breath and his two hearts would finally stop beating for the very last time, by the essence of his very existence, and the promise he made in the very beginning, there would be one thing he could know, a special privilege of his nature.

He'd know that he died, having his work finally completed.

He'd know that he died, with not a single person skipped over, unhelped, or in need.

He'd know that he could only die, victorious.


End file.
